


An Unlikely Hero

by McVetty



Category: Iron Man (Movies), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Science Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-26
Updated: 2012-05-26
Packaged: 2017-11-06 01:38:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,490
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/413299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/McVetty/pseuds/McVetty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve, Tony, Natasha and Clint find themselves in a sticky situation, Tony is under the knife for his Arc-Reactor technology, Steve is stuck in a cell, and it all seems hopeless. It rests on the shoulders of the most unlikely Avenger to rescue the group.</p><p>/Contains snarky Tony and slight torture</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Unlikely Hero

Tony Stark woke to the steady _drip-drip-drip_ of water on the cold stone floor. His brain pounded against his skull in a bid for escape, keeping him on the floor of the obscure, poorly lit room. Before opening his eyes, he noticed three things. First, that he was feeling considerably more naked than when he'd been knocked unconscious. Second, JARVIS was not telling him to wake up, and thus he was without his Iron Man suit. Third, and finally the one that made him open his eyes, he couldn't hear a damn thing over the constant _drip-drip-drip_. Less than six feet above him was a jagged stone ceiling. A chill trickled down his spine, arching his back and setting his hair on edge. Unwilling to jump to any conclusions, the genius billionaire playboy philanthropist tried to sit up. His body protested with a stabbing pain in his chest, and he fell back to the floor with a loud groan of distress.

“Tony?”

Tony paused to consider the voice. “Steve?” he asked.

“Good, you're awake. I was worried about you,” Steve sighed in relief. His voice seemed distant somehow, and Tony had to strain to hear him.

“How did we get here?” Tony asked, pausing a beat. “You know what, skip that part. Lets get straight to the part where we escape. You do have an escape plan, don't you?”

Steve chuckled. “I was hoping you would come up with that part.”

“Good, you're still thinking. My plan will be better than yours anyway.”

“Thanks.”

“No problem,” Tony said, grunting as he eased himself into a sitting position. He pulled himself to the wall of the cave, leaning against it to gather his surroundings. The cave was a recess in a larger system, cut off from the rest by a set of old-fashioned prison bars crossing over each other. The lock on the door was wound on a metal chain. Tony grit his teeth against the slamming pain in his head, getting to business. “First things first, where's my suit?” he asked.

Steve hesitated before answering. “They took it.”

“What? How?”

“They threatened your life. JARVIS overrode the Iron Man protocols.”

“Remind me to remove empathy from his AI,” Tony groaned, rubbing his temple. “Right, so where are the others? Barton, Natasha?”

“Somewhere in here with us,” Steve answered. “They seem keen on keeping us alive.”

“Of course they want us alive. We have something they want. They'll start nice and friendly, then they'll get  _Hostel_ on us.”

Steve couldn't have gotten the reference, and Tony didn't put it past him to think he meant  _hostile_ . 

“What about Banner?” Tony asked.

“Banner? He wasn't even with us, he's fine,” Steve said with a scoff.

“Good, that's great.”

“Why is that good?”

“You mean other than the painfully obvious fact that his freedom gives us a better chance at escape?” Tony asked. “He's in my lab, and JARVIS will have told him what's going on by now.”

“Banner is one man. He's not getting in here by himself,” Steve protested.

Tony shook his head. “Banner is better than ten men hyped up on Red Bull, covered in... in green paint,” he said.

“I don't think we can rely on the Hulk to help us. He's a loose cannon,” Steve said.

“Sometimes you need a little friendly fire,” Tony answered.

Their talking dies down when another sound joins the  _drip-drip-drip_ , footsteps outside the natural-made cells. The steps walk closer, until tony can see the outline of a man outside his cell. He doesn't try to see the man better, mostly because he doesn't care, and he doesn't move because his head feels like a million suns are exploding inside it. The shadowy figure grabs the chains, pressing a key into the padlock and popping it open. The figure doesn't speak as he enters Tony's cell, another man following behind him.

“What's with the silent treatment?” Tony asked cheekily.

“Tony? What's going on?” Steve asked, a note of urgency creeping into his voice.

“Some goons just barged into my room and – HEY!”

The figure in the lead grabbed Tony by the hair, pulling him to the side while the other man jabbed a needle into his neck. Tony gulped, hands flailing out to remove the figure's hands from his head, already feeling the effects of whatever was in the needle. His arms fell heavy, his words became slush on his tongue. Somewhere far off, he could hear Steve shouting.

“Tony? Tony! What's going on? If they touch a hair on your head...”

_Too late, Cap,_ Tony wanted to say, but his body betrayed his mind, slowly sagging into paralysis. His breathing became labored as his chest grew heavier. The figure and his assistant grabbed Tony under the arms and lifted him between them, dragging him out of the cell. Limp and powerless, Tony couldn't focus on anything but the floor drifting by under his feet. He heard, rather than saw, Steve slamming himself against the bars of his own metal cage. 

“What are you doing with him? Get back here and answer me!  _Son of a bitch!_ ”

Tony wanted to ask the same question, but his lips wouldn't work.

His captors pushed open a metal door and they stepped into a blindingly white room. Tony pinched his eyes shut, unable to keep them open. The sensation of being pulled somewhere he couldn't see forced his eyes open, adjusting to the brightness to see the legs of a metal table. Stomach churning, he tried to fight against his captors but the drug in his system wouldn't release control over his motor functions. They flipped him bodily onto the table, and his head burst into tiny white lights as it slammed against the metal.

Strapping him to the table, the two men didn't utter a single word. They exchanged glances. Both were in their thirties, with dark hair, and while one was thin with a peppery mustache, the other was thicker with a clean-shaven face. Tony noted these details, focused on them incredibly hard, because beneath the drug, he was terrified of what was going to come next.

A television monitor was wheeled to the bottom of the table, adjusted several times to make sure he could see it. When that had been done, a man in white stepped into his vision. Beneath the surgeon's mask, Tony could  _see_ the evil leaking out of him. Cold dark eyes, eyebrows angled crazily, sharp cheekbones, those thin lines across the forehead. 

“Anthony Stark,” the man said in a thick Cambodian accent. “I never did think I would get the pleasure.”

Tony couldn't reply, but he could feel the drug slipping away.

“Terribly sorry about the injection. We can not be too careful with you.” The doctor motioned to the two men, then reached over Tony in a careless manner that suggested he wasn't concerned for his safety at all. He had no reason to be, with Captain America in a cell and Iron Man motionless on a table. Turning the television on, the doctor settled back standing beside Tony. “I am Chanda, the man you have been sent to kill.”

This, Tony wasn't expecting. A strained noise left his throat, embarrassing him as  Chanda  looked incredibly amused.

“Yes, very un-American,” he said. “I like to meet my assassins. I get a feel for the competition.”

Chanda left Tony's sight, rummaging through metal. He hummed to himself, coming back into vision with a scissors. Without acknowledging him, the man reached for Tony's shirt, running the scissors down from the neck to the hem and laying it open on either side of Tony's chest.

“Very nice arc-reactor,” Chanda observed, tapping the glowing light with the scissors. “How does it work, I wonder?”

“F... fuck you,” Tony growled, his tongue feeling heavy and his lips feeling dull.

“Feeling better?” Chanda asked. “Good. I want you awake and loud for this.”

The television flickered to life. Split into three, the screen showed Steve, Clint, and Natasha, each in their own respective cells. Steve gripped the bars so hard his knuckles were white – even on the colorless screen Tony could see it. Clint sat on the floor, looking down, appearing for all the world asleep. Natasha didn't stop pacing, from one end of her cell to the next and back again. One section was so low she had to duck every time she passed it, but that didn't stop her once.

“Your friends are very odd,” Chanda observed, setting the scissors aside and plucking a different tool from beyond Tony's line of sight. “I'm sure they will all pay attention in a minute. How are we feeling?”

“Like a million bucks,” Tony slurred.

Chanda lifted the scalpel into view, looking down on Tony as one might look at an interesting drawing. “This will hurt. It is okay to scream.”

When the scalpel touched his skin, he felt his muscles jump. His eyes shifted in panic from Chanda to the television, wondering just how this setup worked. He focused his attention on it, stopped thinking about the scalpel, tried to figure out the wires and the feeds. The blade bit into his flesh, drawing slick, sweet blood as Chanda pressed firmly, drawing a straight line to the left of the arc-reactor. He drew another line beneath it, sliding the blade through flesh with ease. Tony had to fight with everything he had not to scream, sweat beading on his brow, teeth gritting together.

“Come now,” Chanda said, pulling the blade away. “You want to let your friends know you are alive. Or maybe you would like us to kill them?”

“No, don't,” Tony said immediately, his throat tightening.

“It is an option if you refuse to assist me.”

“What do you want?”

“I want the Iron Man, I want the arc-reactor. I want the technology you have made.”

“Not gonna happen.”

“Then your friends will die, but not before they hear you scream,” Chanda sighed, resuming his work with the blade.

As the blade scraped along the wall of the arc-reactor, Tony screamed. Clint's head jerked up from his arms, Natasha stopped pacing, Steve shook the bars with all his strength, screaming words that Tony couldn't hear.

“How does it work?” Chanda asked, peeling the flesh away from the outer wall. “Quite curious.”

“Dig in there all day,” Tony grit, shaking. “You won't find anything useful.”

“I have the Iron Man suit.”

“With a faulty AI that won't listen to a damn thing you say.”

“I will have my men reprogram it.”

“No, you wont. You reprogram the Iron Man suit, and it never works again.”

“You're bluffing.”

Tony hissed in a breath as the blade pried into his flesh. “Do you really want to find out?”

“You are desperate. You will say anything.”

“Well, almost anything,” Tony grunted. Feeling was coming back into his limbs, the fingers of his right hand twitching sporadically.

Chanda prodded the arc-reactor with a finger, looking up to Tony before pressing and unscrewing the piece. “This keeps you alive?” he asked, pulling it out of Tony's chest. The wire pulled tight, and the man tugged on it lightly. “I can remove it.”

“And... good luck.... figuring it out,” Tony said, grimacing. Warm blood pulsed from the cut in his chest, sliding down his side and pooling in his shirt.

Chanda twisted the device in his hand, looking at it curiously. “Tell me the secrets.”

Tony didn't respond. He looked to the screen, blinking behind the haze of pain to focus on his teammates. They hadn't resumed their mundane activities. If anything, they were looking for ways out of their cells. Steve seemed to be convinced he could rip the iron out of the cave wall. In truth, Tony didn't see a way out of this. There was always something, but this time they messed up. Chanda was a high-class war criminal, the kind the United Nations didn't mess with. The kind Nick Fury thought would be perfect fodder for the Avengers. Tony had agreed with him, all too gung-ho to take on a new task not involving building towers and naming them  _Potts_ and putting someone else's name on the lease. Not that he resented Pepper for that, not even close, because she deserved every bit of recognition, but he hated relenting control, even an ounce of it. Laying on the table, merciless at the hands of a crazy war criminal, he felt that he hadn't felt this little control since Iraq. The comparison stung him to the core.

“Mr. Stark,” Chanda said, pressing the arc-reactor back into Tony's chest. “You will tell me, before this week is out. I will not kill you until you tell me.”  
“Maybe I'll just stay silent and you can feed me the rest of my life. I've always wanted a servant.”

“Enough,” Chanda snapped, turning around to rummage through his tools. He came back with a towel, dabbing it without care at the blood pooling in the incision he made. Slowly, the towel turned red and Tony felt himself growing faint. Chanda tossed the towel aside, resuming picking at the wall of the arc-reactor with his scalpel. As he scraped away the skin and nerves bound to the device, Tony tried to hold back his screams. They came out in whimpers and low moans, in  _fucks_ and  _goddamns_ . 

He tried to think of anything else, of Pepper or Stark tower or generating clean power. Nothing worked, and his pitiful whimpers gave way to full-on screaming. Multiple times, Chanda paused to praise him for worrying his friends. Tony couldn't see the screen any longer, it was all a hazy blur. His head didn't hurt anymore, his head didn't  _feel_ anymore. If the blood loss continued at this rate, he wouldn't make it, but a nagging bit of his mind told him the crazy man wanted him alive – needed him alive.

A heavy crash sounded through the room. Chanda's hand slipped, the blade digging into Tony's chest, skipping his heart several beats. In a flash, Chanda is gone. The feed on the television blurred in and out of Tony's vision, and he struggled against the inevitable. Warm darkness beckoned to him, but he grit his teeth in defiance. The last thing he saw before he passed out was the video feed flickering, and Steve's image disappearing into static.

 

 

 

“Tony.”

His eyes fluttered open.

“Tony, hey, welcome back,” Steve said, patting Tony's face.

His groggy mind tried making sense of it. “What?”

“Can you walk?”

“I... I don't think so,” he answered hoarsely.

“We'll have to carry him between us,” Clint's voice interrupted. “It'll slow us down, but we can't leave him here.”

“What about Chanda?” Tony asked.

“Don't worry about it,” Steve said, moving his arm under Tony's shoulders and lifting him into a sitting position.

Tony's hand went to his chest. Beneath the layers of padded gauze, he could see the dull blue glow. “I think he knew we were coming.”

“Hindsight being twenty-twenty, I think you're right,” Clint answered, moving under Tony's arm and lifting him with his shoulders. Steve followed suit, and they pulled Tony to his feet.

“We have to find Natasha,” Steve said as the trio moved awkwardly towards the doors, Tony dangling near-limp between the two.

“No, Iron Man, they can't get it,” Tony protested.

“There's bigger things to worry about,” Steve said sternly.

“No, there's not,” Tony said. “If they get their hands on it...”

“We'll take care of it,” Clint said. “You worry about not dying.”

Tony didn't ask how they would take care of it. His vision swam before his eyes, giving him the illusion of moving through a funhouse of tilting mirrors. Steve stopped, Clint staggering to a stop under Tony's weight. The sudden lack of movement had Tony's head spinning.

“Barton, search for Natasha. You'll find her sooner without Stark.”

“Right,” Clint said with a nod, peeling away from the pair to jog far beyond Tony's sight.

Steve stood still, supporting Tony with steady arms. They didn't speak, there was nothing to say. Tony felt like dead weight against Steve's side, but there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it. A sound from behind them made them turn to look. Down the corridor, they could hear the sound of footsteps and men shouting.

Tony swayed, pulling away from Steve. “Go find Clint and Natasha,” he said, standing shakily.

“What?”

“Go!”

“Tony, what the hell are you doing?”

“You're never getting out of here without a distraction!” Tony snapped. “Now go, find the lovebirds and get out of here!”

Steve's face scrunched into one of confusion. “I'm not leaving you here,” he said, grabbing Tony's arm. “Come on, stop it.”

“I'm not going to run and hide while someone dies for me.”

“No one is dying, Tony.”

“No, they're not, because I'm giving you the distraction you need.”

“Tony -”

“Tell Pepper I'm sorry, but I couldn't do it again.”

Steve grabbed for Tony. “Don't be ridiculous,” he said angrily. “We're all getting out of here.” His hand gripped Tony's arm and he pulled him close, wrapping his arm around his back and forcing him away from the death sentence of a hallway. Tony protested, loudly, but Steve didn't let go, dragging the half-limp playboy through the corridors in search of Clint and Natasha. Their search ended as the pair burst from a side-passage, nearly knocking Steve and Tony over.

“They're right behind us,” Clint said breathlessly, ducking to get Tony's arm around his shoulder and support the weight.

“We better move,” Natasha warned.

“Let me go,” Tony protested weakly.

“What is he going on about?” Clint asked.

“It's nothing,” Steve said.

They hadn't stumbled down the rest of the respective corridor before the men were on them, waving their guns, shouting in their foreign tongue, and the quartet of heroes stopped, raising their hands, with the exception of Tony who let out a defeated sigh. The men surrounding them motioned for Steve and Clint to release Tony, shouting and threatening with their guns. Steve took Tony, trying to stand him up on his own. The man swayed, collapsed into Clint, and was lowered to the ground gently by the marksman.

“Lets not do anything rash,” Steve said to the men, his hands out.

A roar sounded from down the corridor.

The men turned, and Steve lashed out at the closest one. The punch slammed into the man's face, sending him to the ground. Clint and Natasha jumped into action, and Tony struggled to get to his feet. He was halfway standing when a man leveled a rifle at his face. His entire life crashed over his eyes, his face paled, his heart missed a beat. As if in a dream, a huge green fist connected with the man and sent him flying into the wall. Bricks fell to the floor, dust spraying out in every direction. Tony fell to his knees, coughing in the aftermath as the Hulk tore through the ranks of men. Clint and Natasha fell back, helping Tony to his feet as Steve brushed chunks of brick and chalky white dust from his suit. 

When Hulk returned, lumbering closer to the quartet, Steve slid into a defensive position.

“No,” Tony coughed. “No, Steve, I wouldn't do that.”

“What?”

“Look,” Tony said, pointing to Hulk.

There was a band around Hulk's left wrist, appearing to be made of an elastic material. Overall, Hulk seemed more relaxed than his previous encounters with the group, though the raw anger still shimmered through in his heavy breathing and the shaking of his muscles.

“What... is that?” Steve asked.

“A sort of experiment,” Tony answered, looking down at his chest. Blood seeped through the gauze, and he felt himself going faint again, so he looked away.

“What kind of experiment?”

“Talk to him,” Tony suggested, motioning with his free hand.

Steve opened his mouth, but before he spoke, Tony interrupted him.

“No, don't talk to him, he might not like that and I don't want to have an angrier Hulk on our hands. And I really don't want to see Banner naked.” Tony looked up to Hulk with a loose smile, masking the pain. Clint and Natasha held their ground, but he could feel their unease. “Don't worry, we should be fine.”

“Right,” Clint said.

Natasha was the first to brave the 'new and improved' Hulk. “Is Fury here with the extraction?” she asked, her question directed to the green beast.

In response, Hulk grunted and turned around, lumbering down the hall.

“In search of more baddies to beat up,” Tony offered with another cough.

“Let's get you to the hospital,” Steve said, taking Tony from Natasha and Clint.

“I don't need a hospital,” Tony protested. “I just need a good night's rest and some scotch. Maybe some whiskey. Rum and Bourbon too.”

“One thing at a time. Hospital first,” Steve said firmly.


End file.
